Every town in Tamil Nadu has its secrets. But between Arakkonam, a dusty junction town in the west, and Chengalpattu, a greener hub to the south of Chennai, runs an invisible thread—a railway line few speak of, and fewer remember.
Old-timers at the Arakkonam railway quarters still speak in hushed tones about a forgotten engine, one that passes only during Amavasai—the new moon night. But they all agree on one thing:
"Never board a train alone between Arakkonam and Chengalpattu on Amavasai. If you see it, turn around. Don’t look back. Don’t ask questions. Don’t speak."
No one explains why. The elders just call it the one unbreakable rule.
Aarav, was 28, brilliant, skeptical, and newly transferred to the Southern Railways zone for a six-month upgrade project on old signalling systems. Fresh from Bengaluru, Aarav was the kind of man who believed data could explain anything — ghosts, myths, even haunted trains.
His first assignment was in Arakkonam Junction, a place so hot and dry that the dust seemed permanent. The staff quarters were old, with peeling paint and fans that hummed like insects. But it was in the dusty archives of the railway control room that Aarav first encountered something strange.
A file. Torn, yellowed, and partially burned.
'Case File 76-B: Missing Engine 3876'
Dated: July 2, 1989
Location: Arakkonam–Chengalpattu Track
Status: Closed – Unresolved
The final page read:
“At 02:19 AM, engine reported outside Chengalpattu limits. No driver. No crew. No passengers. Entire coach interior coated in grey ash. Final signal logged on Line 9A. Operator: K.R. Raman.”
K.R. Raman. That name struck a chord.
It was his grandfather.
Aarav had grown up hearing that his grandfather, K.R. Raman, had died of a heart attack while working as a night shift signalman near Chengalpattu. But no one had ever shown him a death certificate. No body had ever been recovered. Only a vague story his father refused to talk about.
Now, reading that file, something shifted. The truth wasn’t buried—it had been hidden.
Aarav asked the local stationmaster, an old man named Murugesan, about it. The man went pale.
“You’re his grandson?”
Murugesan led him outside the station building, away from staff.
“That train… it comes only on Amavasai. It doesn’t run on fuel. It doesn’t show up on any rail tracker. But the wheels still grind the earth. We hear it. Feel it.”
Aarav tried to smile. “You’re saying a ghost train appears between Arakkonam and Chengalpattu?”
“No,” Murugesan said, voice trembling. “I’m saying it travels between what once was... and what can never be again.”
June 6th. Amavasai.
Aarav had made up his mind. He would place GPS trackers on the old sideline near Arakkonam and wait with his equipment to prove the train's existence. It wasn’t just about data anymore—it was about his grandfather.
He arrived at the siding at 11:30 PM, backpack loaded with sensors, a GoPro strapped to his chest, and a portable recorder running. The area was eerily quiet. Even the insects had gone silent.
At 12:03 AM, he heard it.
Chud-chud-chud...
A distant clatter, rhythmic but mechanical, echoing faintly. He turned toward the far end of the track, and out of the mist emerged a train — rusted, ancient, with flickering lanterns hanging on its sides.
No number. No sound of an engine. Just... movement.
As it neared, he saw passengers—silent figures sitting still, some holding cloth bags, others in old uniforms. They stared straight ahead, expressionless.
Then, one figure turned.
It was his grandfather.
Aarav's breath caught. “Thatha...?”
The train slowed, stopping in front of him. The doors opened with a long, wheezing creak.
Something ancient in Aarav told him to run. But his feet moved forward.
He stepped in.
Inside, the air was heavy—thick with ash and memory. The windows didn’t show the present outside. Instead, they flickered: flashes of Arakkonam station as it looked in 1989... Chengalpattu in black and white... children playing near a steam engine… and sometimes, just endless, empty land.
Each passenger seemed stuck in time, repeating small gestures—counting coins, folding tickets, checking a nonexistent watch.
His grandfather looked at him. A tear ran down his cheek, but his lips were stitched shut with holy thread.
Aarav’s GoPro blinked and died.
A whisper swept through the train — not from mouths, but from the wood, the seats, the very metal.
“He spoke. He broke the rule. Now he remembers.”
At dawn, railway workers near Chengalpattu found Aarav unconscious near an abandoned siding, one that hadn’t been operational since the 80s. His hands were covered in soot. His mouth moved slowly, chanting in Sanskrit—a language he had never learned.
In his pocket was an old train ticket, faded, with the name K.R. Raman printed on it.
Doctors cleared him physically. But mentally, Aarav had changed.
He no longer asked questions. He no longer looked at trains the same way. Every Amavasai, he disappeared from his room between midnight and dawn, returning with ash-streaked clothes and eyes that looked through people.
Today, the file has been reclassified. The track from Arakkonam to Chengalpattu is under spiritual observance, guarded unofficially by senior station staff.
Aarav works at a quiet outpost in Ooty now, where trains rarely whistle. But every new moon, he writes one line in a journal:
“I saw him again. He smiled this time.”
The villagers say the rule still stands. And now they add one more:
“If you see a man boarding a train with no number on Amavasai night… Don’t stop him. He’s not going to your station.”
React
